


Sacrilege

by oceansinmychest



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Mental Anguish, One Shot, anguish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: A belated birthday present for my dear friend. May you enjoy! Title's a play off your gift to me, Sanctified.





	Sacrilege

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScarletteStar1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/gifts).



> A belated birthday present for my dear friend. May you enjoy! Title's a play off your gift to me, Sanctified.

Neither a holy man nor a religious man, Sir Malcolm Murray experiences detachment when he sets foot inside the cathedral. Its stone walls cage him. This isn’t the jungle, isn’t some free expanse, for him to divide and conquer. Perhaps that’s why he avoids such an edifice like the plague. There’s a timeless quality to a church. Protected from the hustle and bustle of the dirt streets that become consumed by industrialism, clammy stone acts as a makeshift prison. He feels uneasy, unsettled, out of line.

A man of contradictions, he pays his respect by avoiding temples and houses of prayer. He exploits them in his own personal quest. They never brought back Mina though they offer sanctuary to a woman in black.

The source of the Nile leads him through this perilous maze. He can still taste the dirt from his most recent travels. Grit clings to his molars and settles on the bed of his tongue. He passes the narthex and approaches the nave where he chooses a pew to claim as his own extended throne. He sits several rows behind dear Miss Ives. His cane knocks against the back of polished wood.

He finds her praying or, at least, in the position of prayer.

When she prays, Vanessa neglects the fall of his gleaming boots. Wax trickles down the array of votive candles that vary in length. Light flickers and wanes. Shadows are cast, constantly changing, but never taking a proper form. The altar stands remarkably barren, as empty as the womb belonging to the Mother of All Evil. Alone with God no more, Vanessa Ives senses a familiar presence. She swallows. Her pale, white throat flexes.

Trembling fingers lock together. She curses how her hands shake no matter the affliction of dread or calm. She smells smoke. It tickles her nose. Her hooded gaze devours the tabernacle. No amount of holy water could wash away their vices. Try as she might, Vanessa cannot repent. Her eyes squeeze shut.

He lets her have her faith. This, he will not take from her.

She’s a _masterpiece_ \- a classical statue perfectly poised.

He **loves** that about her. In the cathedral whose name is forgotten, one expects a confessional. He doesn't play the role of father though he could have. Once. He looks at her with his shining sea blue stare. It’s written there.

In this twilight, she pines for grace. She worships as he watches.

Situated in miserable purgatory, ghosts infect his vainglorious life. Mina Murray is a phantom pain. The Sword of Damocles hangs over a weary explorer’s head. His old bones ache and sing the song of melancholia. Not a Lion of God, but a Lion of Industry, a capitalist with a thirst for expansion, Herodas abandons his hedonistic empire. Worn and torn, he holds his face in his calloused hands. His ribcage rattles with a sigh.

If he were draped in furs - skins - of all that he’s hunted, Malcolm would be no different from an Old Testament king.

A man of remarkably bad decisions makes one more. His animal urge and primal pride has cost him much: a daughter, a son, a wife grown dowdy from his exploits. Yet, his pulse screams for him to rise. He leaves his walking stick where it remains. A calloused palm swipes over his embroidered vest. He approaches her.

The hunter loves the game. Malcolm pretends he’s in the jungle, the desert, a place far away where he creeps up on his prey and conquers a wild, untamed thing.

When Vanessa stands, the serpentine sway of her skirt hisses in an act of defiance. They meet only in the evenings, their intent always covered by the dirty, pitch black. Face to face, they stand in absolute stillness beyond prayer and past the realm of vigil. The air feels heavy as though they wade through blood again. Christ, it _hurts_.

The spirit of tragedy produces a magnetic hold.

With a tilt of her head, her lips purse. She reads his guilt. It won’t set him free.

His eyes, brighter than a crisp morning, pierce like a rapier. He grates her. Cuts her raw. For all his flaws, she grounds him.

“You’re all villains.”

When she speaks, she speaks of men. Of damage. Of a wound that’s never healed. Her voice rasps. It’s a shadow, a thin wisp of nothingness.

At a young age, he broke her heart.

His darkling calls to her. She refuses through fierce indignation. He swallows so thickly that she can spy his Adam’s apple sail up in a flash. Down, the next.

When he approaches her, he feels his own weight tie him down. A predator approaches a fellow predator, not prey. There is no conquest to be had. They look to the empty expanse set before them.

“You’re cruel,” she accuses. Words fill the void. The silence.

He stares at her with a sick stare which she reciprocates. He recognizes the coldness with which she speaks.

“And you think yourself innocent?” The gravelly timbre of his voice could be mistaken for venom. Vanessa knows better, but she names the sound regardless.

With the scattered shreds of humanity left behind, Malcolm pulls her toward him. They share a tortured dance, the exchange as corrosive as gospel and gunpowder. Her fists curl against his chest. As if she were a harpy, she fantasizes ripping out his heart and consuming it. His arms ensnare her. He holds on.

What a monstrous way for him to behave.

“This will never end.”

“No, Vanessa.” Malcolm sighs in resignation. In private, he addresses her by her name, not a title.

His flawed heart always sought her out.

His chin rests on the crown of her head. She feels his heat, his misery, his emptiness. His killing hands grip her so tenderly. Bits of him could consume her, but she could just as easily destroy him. Her body pressed against his speaks to an indescribable loss. When hollow things come together, they remain hollow.

Against his chest, her heart palpitates. He latches on. Sinks his predatory claws into her arms. It’s not enough to bruise. Her hair smells of lavender and incense. She scrapes her knuckles against his chest. There’s an awkwardness palpable in their joined embrace: a fumbling with their hearts.

Malcolm calms her, hushes her, just as he once did in days old. Miss Ives flushes as if her body has been robbed – drained – of blood. Their hands link together in unholy matrimony, fingers falling into place like shards of stained glass. Under the same reign called hell, desire confuses itself with rage.

His salt and pepper beard scratches her cheeks. This time, she doesn't giggle as she did in her childhood. His breath scorches her. Equally selfish, Vanessa navigates the maze of their damned past back to the start where she was impressionable and green behind the ears. Her nails trace his jawline.

On the tips of her toes, Vanessa presses her lips to his. Soft, but insistently saying ‘ _I’m here, you’re here, we’re here commiserating in our misery.’_ Her kisses contain a warmth unlike her words. He captures her wrists, frail prized birds of paradise that they are.

As tainted as it is, this kiss is all they have.


End file.
